


Personal Gain

by kjack89



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Developing Relationship, Hijinks & Shenanigans, M/M, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26858809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjack89/pseuds/kjack89
Summary: “Be careful what you wish for,” Courfeyrac whispered, a smile growing across his face as he settled back against his pillow.Well, he certainly had plenty of wishes.And no one had ever accused him of being careful.
Relationships: Combeferre/Courfeyrac (Les Misérables), Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 190





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’m personally not a huge fan of ~spooky~ things, but it is ~~Halloween month~~ October, so I figured a little magic never hurt anyone :)
> 
> Dunno how many chapters this will end up being, or how often I’ll be able to update, but hopefully a few and as often as possible.
> 
> Usual disclaimer. Please be kind and tip your fanfic writers in the form of comments and/or kudos!

When Courfeyrac was five years old, he came home from running wild in the fields with a bouquet of handpicked sunflowers that he presented to his mothers with the flourish of a much more sophisticated person. “For you,” he said in his clear, piping voice.

“They’re beautiful,” his mother told him. “What are they for?”

Courfeyrac cocked his head slightly. “For you,” he repeated. “For my brother or sister.”

His mother smiled a puzzled sort of smile, because Courfeyrac didn’t have any siblings, and went to find a vase, and after that, a pregnancy test.

And that evening, when Courfeyrac had gotten into bed, his father joined him, which was rare, and he sat down so that the bed dipped and creaked, and he told Courfeyrac about their family.

About their history.

About the secret they had guarded for centuries.

For while Courfyerac had inherited his mischievous smile from his mother, and the curls that fell roguishly across his forehead and his ability to charm anyone in hearing range from his father, he had inherited something more.

Courfeyrac was magic.

In later years, as his magic grew, he’d learn that sunflowers were for fertility, and wish fulfillment, but he’d also learn that just bringing sunflowers wasn’t enough. It was his magic that had told him to pick them and his magic that had bound them with his will. It wasn’t just about the flowers or herbs, though when Jean Prouvaire brought him home one night in college after too many drinks at the bar, he’d still chuckled at the damiana he’d spotted in a small pot on his balcony. 

It was about the will to make something happen, and the magical power to back it up.

And Courfeyrac had both in spades.

There was one other secret Courfeyrac’s father told him that night, running his hand lightly through Courfeyrac’s dark curls. “This is the most important thing of all,” he said, his voice low, serious. “You must always use your magic to help, not to hurt. And always to help someone else, never yourself.”

“Why not?” Courfeyrac asked, a little mutinously, as his five-year-old mind had already thought about how he was going to use his powers to get unlimited ice cream from the ice cream truck.

His father’s hand stilled. “Have you ever heard the expression ‘Be careful what you wish for’?” he asked. Courfeyrac shook his head. “Well, when you use your magic to help yourself, it almost never turns out the way you want it to.”

Courfeyrac nodded, and his father bent to kiss him on the top of his head before tucking him in and leaving, keeping the door open just a crack so that a bit of light spilled into Courfeyrac’s room.

Courfeyrac lay back in bed, excitement growing as he stared up at the ceiling, too many possibilities for his five-year-old brain to count running through his head.

“Be careful what you wish for,” he whispered, a smile growing across his face as he settled back against his pillow.

Well, Courfeyrac certainly had plenty of wishes.

And no one had ever accused him of being careful.

* * *

“I just think that it’s asinine—” Enjolras snapped, his face red.

“Oh, asinine?” Grantaire repeated, with an ugly, dangerous smirk on his face. “What decade did you waltz out of? If you’re going to yell at me all evening, I’d at least appreciate some insults derived from this side of the new millennium.”

“Sorry, I thought asinine was a more polite way of referring to your perpetual dumbfuckery.”

“Dumbfuckery?” Grantaire said, his smirk growing. “Now  _ that _ I do like the sound of.”

A muscle worked in Enjolras’s jaw. “If you’ll shut up for long enough to let me get to my point—”

“I wish they would both just shut up,” Courfeyrac muttered, drumming his fingers against the table in the back room of the Musain and trying to stop himself from glaring at Enjolras and Grantaire, whose quiet bickering at the end of a Les Amis meeting had grown into what could charitably be described as a shouting match.

“Careful,” Combeferre said, eyeing his fingers warily.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and sighed. “You know that’s not how it works,” he huffed, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

Combeferre just arched an eyebrow. “I do know,” he said mildly, turning back to the article he was reading on his phone.

And Combeferre did. He was the one who had figured it out, had put two and two together when they were still at university, realizing that the tea that Courfeyrac had given him for his anxiety had a lot more than just valerian root in it. How many sleepless nights he had spent at the library, Courfeyrac might never know, but what he did know is that Combeferre burst into the apartment they shared with Enjolras early one morning, cheeks flushed, to proudly tell Courfeyrac, “I know what you are.”

“And what’s that?” Courfeyrac had asked, bemused, stirring a salve to help with Bossuet’s hair loss on the stove.

“You’re a witch,” Combeferre had declared proudly, before pausing, making a face. “Or a wizard. I’m not quite sure on the proper nomenclature.” He paused, taking a deep breath, before looking back at Courfeyrac. “But you’re magic, aren’t you.”

Courfeyrac had been so dumbfounded that he’d forgotten to try to lie. Not that it would have mattered if he had – Combeferre by that point knew more about Courfeyrac’s magic than the man himself did.

Here, in the present, Courfeyrac was beginning to regret that he hadn’t lied. “Anyway, even if I did want to use my magic on the two of them, I doubt a silencing spell would solve anything,” he said sourly. “They’d probably learn sign language just to keep fighting with each other.”

“Probably,” Combeferre agreed with a light laugh, looking back down at his phone.

“Besides, what they really need is to just admit how they feel to each other. That would solve far more of their problems than a temporary loss of speech,” Courfeyrac sighed.

He traced an idle finger along the table, half-consciously sketching the runic shorthand he used when creating a spell, and he was halfway through before he realized he was tracing out a truth spell, and he froze.

Of course.

Why hadn’t he thought of it before?

Combeferre’s head snapped up, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t,” he warned, and Courfeyrac glanced over at him.

“Don’t what?” he asked, aiming for innocent and missing by a mile.

Combeferre set his phone down. “Don’t do what you’re thinking about doing.”

“Even if I was thinking about doing something,” Courfeyrac started before adding pointedly, “which I’m not—” Combeferre snorted in disbelief. “—give me one good reason why I shouldn’t.”

“Because you can’t use your magic for personal gain,” Combeferre reminded him, his tone disapproving, and Courfeyrac squirmed, just a little.

Somehow, in addition to being the only one who knew about his magic, Combeferre was also the only one whose judgment he cared about, just a little.

“It’s not for personal gain,” he protested. “It’s practically for the public good at this rate.”

“It’s for your own good,” Combeferre countered, looking at him evenly. “You’re tired of them bickering and you think this will solve it.”

Courfeyrac scowled. “Well, won’t it?”

Combeferre just shook his head. “Almost certainly not in the way that you want it to,” he said pointedly.

“Ok, thanks  _ Dad _ ,” Courfeyrac said, equally pointed, and Combeferre gave him a look before picking his phone up. “And I didn’t say I was going to do anything. But those two need an intervention, and seeing as how I have the tools at my disposal to make  _ something _ happen, it seems like criminal negligence to not.”

“I doubt your criminal law professor would approve of this misuse of jurisprudence,” Combefere said dryly. Courfeyrac rolled his eyes, and Combeferre sighed, the long-suffering sigh of someone who was almost certainly going to say ‘I told you so’ at some point down the line. “Just be careful what you wish for,” he murmured, looking back down at his phone.

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes again, deciding, emphatically, to ignore him, looking instead at Enjolras and Grantaire, an excitement like he hadn’t felt in years growing in his stomach, and this time, when he drummed his fingers against the table, it was with the magic that coursed through his veins. “Cardamom,” he murmured to no one in particular, “trefoil, henbane, skullcap…”

“That better be a grocery list you’re reciting,” Combeferre said warningly.

“It is,” Courfeyrac assured him, only half-lying. He would have to buy some herbs, after all, if he was going to pull this off. Whatever ‘this’ ended up being.

Because come hell or high water, he was going to get those two together, no matter what Combeferre might think. 

He was the one who was going to say ‘I told you so’ to Combeferre.

For once.

First time for everything.

“Are you even listening to me?” Enjolras burst, and Courfeyrac glanced over at them, at Enjolras standing and glaring down at Grantaire, who raised his glass in a mocking toast before draining it.

“No,” Grantaire told him. “But damn if I’m not enjoying the view.” Enjolras let out a noise like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on and Grantaire stood, grinning. “Refill,” he said blithely, heading toward the door, and Enjolras trailed after him, clearly not willing to let the argument go, slamming the door behind him with enough force to rattle the pictures on the walls.

Combeferre sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose before opening one eye to squint at Courfeyrac, who immediately recognized the look on his face and tried not to look as excited as he felt. “I’m not condoning this,” Combeferre warned.

“Of course not,” Courfeyrac said somberly.

“I still think this is a mistake that you’re doing for personal gain, and the results are going to bite you in the ass.”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Undoubtedly.”

Combeferre hesitated, and Courfeyrac enjoyed more than he would ever admit watching the indecision play out across Combeferre’s expression before he finally ducked his head and sighed heavily. “So what did you have in mind?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “I thought you’d never ask.”


	2. Chapter 2

Courfeyrac waved an impatient hand as he opened his apartment door, like he was swatting an annoying bug away from him. In reality, he was clearing the warding spell he’d placed on his door and windows when he moved in. **  
**

The spell wasn’t designed to keep anyone out – he had nothing worth stealing in his apartment, and his tendency to let his less fortunate friends crash at his place made such a spell impractical, but he liked to know who went into his apartment when he was gone.

“Anyone exciting?” Combeferre asked dryly from behind him, and Courfeyrac shook his head.

“Nope, just Pontmercy, but a few days old.”

He wandered toward his bedroom, mentally sorting through his best options for dealing with Enjolras and Grantaire situation as Combeferre settled in his usual spot on the couch. “Are you getting the grimoire?”

“You mean the Book of Shadows?” Courfeyrac called from his bedroom, and even though he couldn’t see him, he could practically hear Combeferre scowl.

“You stole that from Charmed,” Combeferre called back, and Courfeyrac reemerged, clutching his family’s grimoire and grinning.

“Yeah, but it’s my grimoire so I can call it whatever I want.” He set the book down on the coffee table with a satisfying thud before sitting down next to Combeferre. “Besides, Charmed was a formative TV show in my troubled youth.”

Combeferre snorted lightly. “Yeah, I’ll bet it was.” He sat forward. “So what are you thinking exactly? Is there a spell for love?”

Courfeyrac flipped through the grimoire and shook his head. “No, it’s one of those things that magic isn’t really able to replicate exactly. There are spells for lust, for attraction, fidelity, and so on.”

“And which exactly are you thinking of?” Combeferre asked, sounding equal parts curious and skeptical.

Courfeyrac grinned as he found the page he was looking for. “Attraction spell,” he said proudly, turning the grimoire to show Combeferre. “The same one I used on Marius.”

Combeferre frowned. “Ok, but that didn’t exactly work out the way you intended it to.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes and turned the book back. “And that had absolutely nothing to do with the spell,” he huffed. “It did exactly what it was supposed to do! It brought the person who owned the handkerchief to Marius.”

“And that person was a fifty-year-old man.”

“So there was a minor issue,” Courfeyrac said dismissively. “But that won’t happen this time because we won’t be relying on Marius to provide an item that actually belongs to the object of his affection and not just something he picked up off the street.”

Combeferre laughed lightly. “Fair point,” he allowed. “But it’s not like Enjolras and Grantaire need to find each other. They see each other almost every day.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “I guess that’s true…” he said reluctantly, before he immediately brightened. “Wait, that’s it. Combeferre, you’re a genius!”

He immediately flipped through the grimoire and Combeferre raised an eyebrow at him. “Normally I’d just take the compliment for what it is, but, uh, in this case I don’t know why you think I’m a genius.”

“They _see_ each other,” Courfeyrac said, stopping his frantic flipping to point triumphantly at a page. “And this will make sure that when they see each other, that’s all they see!”

Combeferre grabbed the grimoire, setting it in his lap and adjusting his glasses before reading out loud, “Focus Spell. Traditionally used in battle to distract one’s enemies—” He broke off and looked up at Courfeyrac. “Really?”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “Keep reading,” he ordered.

Still looking skeptical, Combeferre looked back down at the grimoire. “—the more common modern usage of the Focus Spell is to keep a partner’s wandering eye fixed where it should be. When the recipient of the spell sees their beloved, the rest of the world will fade, keeping their focus on their partner.” Again he looked up at Courfeyrac. “Seeing as how they’re not together, I don’t really see how a spell to stop one from cheating will help.”

Courfeyrac scowled and snatched the grimoire back, taking it into the kitchen where he started rifling through one of his cupboards. “That’s because you lack imagination,” he said. “But if I cast this spell on both of them, the only thing they’ll able to focus on is each other. Meaning there won’t be anything with the Cause to distract Enjolras, or—” He paused. “—Or, well, whatever it is that Grantaire focuses on.”

Combeferre joined Courfeyrac in the kitchen, watching as he picked a number of herbs out of the cupboard, and Courfeyrac glanced over at him and sighed. “Look, worse comes to worst, the spell only lasts a couple of hours, so what’s the worst that could happen?”

“I can think of several things,” Combeferre said sourly. “But what I can’t think of is anything that will actually stop you, so.”

“So then be a dear and grind this licorice root for me,” Courfeyrac said sweetly, handing over a mortar and pestle.

Combeferre took the mortar and pestle, wrinkling his nose as the strong licorice smell as he started grinding the roots. “How are we going to convince them to eat this?”

Courfeyrac shook his head, measuring out powdered skullcap with a practiced eye. “We won’t be,” he said cheerfully. “We’re going to blow it directly into their eyes.”

Combeferre stopped grinding. “We’re going to _what_?”

* * *

“This is a terrible idea,” Combeferre hissed to Courfeyrac, who was beaming and bouncing on the balls of his feet in excitement. 

“This is a great idea and you know it,” he said confidently. “Now shh, here comes Grantaire.”

Grantaire spilled into the backroom of the Musain with Joly and Bossuet, all three laughing, though Joly and Bossuet at least tried to stifle it when they saw Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Grantaire made no such attempt, just arching an eyebrow at them, his grin not fading. “What is this, a welcome party?” he asked.

Combeferre gave Courfeyrac a look but Courfeyrac ignored him. “Actually, yes, because I’m in the mood for a drink and Combeferre is terrible drinking company.”

“Hey now,” Combeferre said, insulted, but Grantaire just laughed.

“You’re not wrong,” he said, leading the way to the usual table he shared with Joly and Bossuet. “It’s the judge-y thing, right?”

“Actually, the judge-y thing normally works for me, but—”

“I can hear you, you know,” Combeferre called as he stalked back to his normal position at the front of the room.

Grantaire passed a beer bottle to Courfeyrac, who took a sip before looking down at it, confused. “Wait, where did this—”

“Don’t worry, I always bring extras,” Grantaire said, grinning as he pulled a second beer bottle from the pocket of his hoodie. 

Courfeyrac shook his head and held the beer up. “Well, cheers,” he said, and Grantaire leaned in, clinking his bottle against Courfeyrac.

“Cheers.”

He started to sit back in his seat but Courfeyrac grabbed his arm, holding him in place. “Hang on a second, you’ve got something on your cheek—” He leaned in close, pretending to pick something off of Grantaire’s cheek before blowing lightly on the powder he’d just put there instead.

Grantaire blinked a few times, his eyes looking suddenly unfocused for a moment. “Did you get it?” he asked.

“Eyelash,” Courfeyrac confirmed with a nod. 

Grantaire blinked a few more times, draining half his beer in one large gulp before rejoining Joly and Bossuet in whatever conversation they had been having before. For his part, Courfeyrac just sat back in his seat, nursing his beer and waiting for the spell to take effect.

He didn’t have to wait long. Not even a minute later, Grantaire blinked again and shook his head before reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose. It was enough to stop Joly mid-sentence to instead frown at him. “Is everything ok?” he asked, slipping automatically into his doctor voice.

Grantaire shook his head again. “No, something’s wrong with my eyes,” he said, squinting over at the as Feuilly and Bahorel made their way in. “Everything’s all...blurry.”

“Maybe you need glasses?” Bossuet suggested.

Joly looked pointedly at the beer in Grantaire’s hand. “Or maybe you just need to stop emptying glasses.”

“Clever,” Grantaire said sourly, pinching the bridge of his nose again. “Damnit, I hope I don’t need glasses, that was the one thing I had going for me.”

“Your most winning quality, truly,” Bossuet said solemnly. “I’m certain you have your perfect eyesight listed in your grindr profile.”

“Shut up,” Grantaire said, but he was laughing. He glanced over at Joly, who was on his phone. “You’re googling eye problems, aren’t you?”

Joly immediately put his phone down. “No,” he said, before biting his lip and then blurting, “But it could be macular degeneration, or cataracts, or—”

“Or it could be something that another drink will solve,” Grantaire said, draining his beer and standing. “See, this is why I always bring extras—”

He broke off as Enjolras strode into the room, tugging his scarf irritably as he made his way over to where Combeferre was sitting. Grantaire tracked him with his eyes, his mouth hanging open just slightly. When Enjolras slid into his seat next to Combeferre, Grantaire slowly sank back into his seat as well, his eyes not leaving Enjolras.

“Earth to Grantaire,” Bossuet said, snapping his fingers loudly next to Grantaire’s ear. “Were you getting another drink or what?”

“Huh?” Grantaire said, blinking before looking over at him. “Oh, uh, I guess not—”

Joly snorted. “Ok, I’m definitely going back to my original assessment that you do not need another drink. I’m cutting you off.”

“I’ve barely had anything,” Grantaire started, but his protest seemed almost distracted as he instead stared at Enjolras again. 

Courfeyrac tried not to grin as he took one more sip of beer before sliding it back across the table to Grantaire. “You can finish mine,” he said innocently. “Duty calls.”

He headed over to Combeferre and Enjolras, pausing to whisper in Combeferre’s ear, “One down, one to go.”

He made as if to walk past him, but Combeferre grabbed his wrist, holding him in place. “I don’t know about this,” he said in an undertone. “Enjolras seems like he’s in a mood.”

“Enjolras is always in a mood,” Courfeyrac whispered. “Besides—”

“Something I can help you both with?” Enjolras asked, sounding more amused than irritated, and Courfeyrac straightened. 

“A little secret never hurt anyone,” he said with a wink.

Enjolras raised an eyebrow and glanced between the two of them. “Sure,” he said, and Combeferre cleared his throat.

“Actually, I’ve got something I want to show you,” he said, pointing at a passage in the printed copy of a news article he was ostensibly reading.

As soon as Enjolras bent over the paper, Combeferre blew on it, causing the spelled herbs to blow into Enjolras’s eyes. Enjolras winced and jerked back. “Everything ok?” Courfeyrac asked as Enjolras frowned, rubbing his eyes.

“Got something in my contacts,” Enjolras said, blinking several times as if to clear them, then looked back at Combeferre expectantly. “Now what were you trying to show me?”

“You know what, it’ll wait until after the meeting,” Combeferre told him before giving Courfeyrac a pointed look, one that Courfeyrac knew all too well, and he meekly sat down next to Combeferre.

As Enjolras called the meeting to order, Combeferre leaned over to hiss at Courfeyrac, “Please tell me that you didn’t forget that Enjolras wore contacts.”

Courfeyrac winced. “I may have forgotten that Enjolras wears contacts.”

“And let me guess, the spell needs to actually touch his eyes to work?”

Courfeyrac watched Enjolras in silence for a long moment, but when Enjolras showed absolutely none of the signs Grantaire had, he sighed and looked over at Combeferre. “That certainly appears to be the case.”

Combeferre exhaled sharply. “Meaning this entire absurd charade was for nothing.”

“Not for nothing!” Courfeyrac protested. “We’ve confirmed that Grantaire definitely has feelings for Enjolras.”

Combeferre gave him a look. “Was that somehow in doubt for you?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “No, but confirmation is nice. Besides…” He trailed off, nodding over at Grantaire. “Just look at him.”

Grantaire’s chin was propped in his hand as he watched Enjolras talk, a slightly dreamy expression on his face, as if Enjolras was the only thing in the world that seemed to matter to him. Combeferre glanced back at Courfeyrac. “How is that any different than what he normally looks like?”

Courfeyrac scowled and elbowed him sharply. “If you’re going to be like this, I’m not going to let you help me anymore.”

“ _Let_ me?” Combeferre repeated incredulously. “Here I was under the impression that I was being forced to help you.”

Both men fell silent for a long moment, though Courfeyrac didn’t pay any attention to what Enjolras was saying, focused instead on Grantaire. Finally, he leaned back over to Combeferre. “I know what you’re thinking.”

“Oh really?” Combeferre whispered back. “Did you cast a mind-reading spell on yourself?”

“Funny,” Courfeyrac said, undeterred. “And you’re thinking that this misstep means we should just give up.”

Combeferre’s expression didn’t change. “I didn’t say that.”

Courfeyrac gave him a look. “You didn’t have to.”

Combeferre sighed. “Look, Courf, I understand what you’re trying to accomplish, and I admit that those two would probably be happier together than they are apart, but it didn’t work.”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “It didn’t work this time,” he said stubbornly.

Combeferre sighed again, but this time it was a sigh of what Courfeyrac recognized as reluctant acceptance. “You’re not going to give this up, are you?”

“Just one of the many things you love about me,” Courfeyrac said smugly. Combeferre muttered something inaudible, and Courfeyrac looked over at him. “What?”

“Nothing,” Combeferre said, a little too quickly. “So if you aren’t giving up on this, do you have any plan for what to try next?”

“Oh yes,” Courfeyrac said confidently. “Honestly, I’m not sure why I didn’t start with it, it’s so obvious.”

Combeferre arched an eyebrow. “Dare I ask?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “Well, what else — a love potion.”


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks to the meeting and a rather long-winded conversation Enjolras and Combeferre had after said meeting, Courfeyrac didn’t have to listen to any of Combeferre’s objections until they got back to his place later that night. But that didn’t mean that he didn’t feel Combeferre’s accusatory glare the entire time. **  
**

“I thought you said that love was something magic couldn’t replicate,” Combeferre said sternly when Courfeyrac plopped down on the couch.

“And it can’t,” Courfeyrac said. “Maybe calling it a love potion is a little strong. It’s more like an attraction potion. Or a, uh…” He waggled his eyebrows at Combeferre. “A lust potion, you might say.”

Combeferre wrinkled his nose. “A lust potion?” he repeated doubtfully.

“That’s right,” Courfeyrac said cheerfully. “All I need is to get Enjolras to drink the potion, and bam, all those feelings of desire they’ve both been trying to hide will come pouring out, and he’ll want to possess and keep Grantaire.”

“First off, that sounds a little rape-y,” Combeferre pointed out. “Secondly, what if it misdirects at the wrong person, and we all have to sit through Enjolras having a crush on Feuilly again?”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes. “It requires a bit of the person it’s aimed at, so it’ll be fine,” he said confidently.

“I see you’re ignoring the rape-y part,” Combeferre said, and when Courfeyrac ignored him, instead flipping through the Book of Shadows, he sighed and added, “Guess we’ll have to revisit the topic of magical consent later.”

“We can revisit it now,” Courfeyrac murmured distractedly. “The potion only magnifies feelings that already exist, it doesn’t create them.”

“But it still reveals those feelings without consent,” Combeferre said, leaning forward, something almost excited in his tone, and Courfeyrac sighed, recognizing it all too well. This was an academic exercise for Combeferre, and while normally Courfeyrac was only too willing to help Combeferre puzzle his way through an intellectual problem, he wasn’t in the mood for it. 

Instead, he picked up the Book of Shadows and headed into his kitchen to start gathering ingredients. Combeferre followed, and without any discussion, they started working together, Courfeyrac gathering the herbs he needed while Combeferre grabbed one of the smaller cauldrons and started filling it at the sink. 

“I’m just saying,” Combeferre said over the sound of the running water. “If Enjolras and Grantaire haven’t said anything yet, maybe it’s for a reason.”

“There are a lot of reasons why people do and don’t say things,” Courfeyrac said. “But that doesn’t mean that my magic can’t help them.”

Combeferre turned the sink off and moved the cauldron to the stove. “Is helping them without their consent still considered helping?”

“The same question could be asked for all the magic that I do,” Courfeyrac pointed out, grabbing the tin of hibiscus tea that Jehan had given him from the cupboard and handing it to Combeferre, who opened a drawer to root around for the infuser. “It’s not possible to get consent in every or even most scenarios where my magic can help people. Would you rather I not use my magic at all?”

“I didn’t say that,” Combeferre said, filling the infuser with tea before handing it back to Courfeyrac, who promptly stuck it in the cauldron to steep. “And there are obvious situations where there isn’t time or the ability to get consent, just like in medicine. But you’re making a big assumption that your magic is helping and not hurting here, especially since you and I both know that your goal at the end of the day was to help yourself so that you don’t have to listen to them argue anymore.”

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes before carefully measuring dried damiana petals into the cauldron. “No, that’s why _you_ think I’m doing this.”

Combeferre leaned against the kitchen counter. “Fine, then why are you doing this?”

Courfeyrac sighed, absently unscrewing and rescrewing the lid of his mason jar of moon water as he tried to find the right words. “Because they should be together,” he said, just a little stubbornly. “Because they both would be so happy with each other if they would just admit how they feel. Because I can help them realize that they have nothing to lose and everything to gain if they would just, I don’t know, use their words.” He shook his head, rummaging for a teaspoon in a drawer. “Because I love love.”

Combeferre’s expression was unreadable as he watched Courfeyrac sprinkle moon water into the cauldron, each droplet hissing as it hit the bubbling concoction. “Well, then, for your sake, I hope this works.”

“It will,” Courfeyrac said confidently, stirring the cauldron. “It’s foolproof.” Combeferre made a small noise of amusement and Courfeyrac glanced over at him. “What?” he asked defensively.

“Nothing,” Combeferre said. “Just...famous last words, you know?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Courfeyrac sniffed.

Combeferre grinned. “I’m sure you don’t.”

* * *

The inaccurately named love potion took two weeks to brew, so Courfeyrac focused on getting the final ingredient: a little piece of Grantaire. This was made far easier than he expected by Enjolras, who came to the next Les Amis meeting looking even paler than usual. “You look like shit,” Grantaire told him, and Enjolras glared at him.

“You really know how to charm a guy,” he muttered, rubbing his arms. “It’s just freezing in here, that’s all.”

“Uh-huh,” Grantaire said skeptically, tugging his ratty green hoodie off and thrusting it unceremoniously at Enjolras. “Well, if you’re not going to go to bed and get some rest like I’m certain you should, at least this will stop you from shivering so hard we won’t be able to understand you.”

“Thanks,” Enjolras said grudgingly, taking the hoodie and pulling it on.

It was from that hoodie that Courfeyrac was able to inconspicuously pluck a few black hairs, which he added to the love potion that night.

And since Enjolras spent the next two weeks mutinously pretending he didn’t have a cold, it was easy enough for Courfeyrac to offer him some ‘tea’ when the time came. “For your, uh, allergies,” Courfeyrac said brightly, practically forcing the steaming mug on him.

“Danks,” Enjolras said, still wearing Grantaire’s hoodie, his stuffy nose making him sound far more like Joly than himself. He took a swig of tea and made a face. “New recipe?”

“Just something I’m trying out,” Courfeyrac said breezily. “Drink up, drink up.”

As Enjolras obediently drank the tea, Courfeyrac glanced over at Grantaire, who was watching Enjolras with a look of mild concern, though Courfeyrac speculated that had more to do with Enjolras’s stubborn insistence that he was healthy and hale than anything else. Enjolras handed the empty mug back, looking slightly less sickly than he had moments before. “I’d stick with the old recipe,” he advised. “I’m not sure—”

He broke off with a frown, and Courfeyrac tried not to look too eager. “Problem?”

Enjolras shook his head slowly. “No, I’m—”

He broke off again, but this time it was because he had been interrupted by a loud meow from somewhere around their ankles, and both men immediately looked down at the black cat that was twining through Enjolras’s legs and looking up at him…

Well, looking up at him with a look very much like one Grantaire normally wore.

“What are you doing in here?” Enjolras asked, sounding concerned, and he bent to pick the cat up. 

Courfeyrac blinked. “Do you, uh, know this cat?”

Enjolras stroked the cat’s cheek with the back of his finger and nodded, his brow furrowed. “Sure, it’s the cat that lives in the alley outside, but I’ve never seen him come inside like this. He normally hisses if anyone gets too close. He’ll let me or Grantaire leave some food for him every now and then, but…”

He trailed off as the cat rubbed his head against Enjolras’s chest, purring loudly. “Maybe it’s because I’m wearing Grantaire’s hoodie?” he suggested, baffled.

As if he had heard his name, Grantaire appeared at Enjolras’s side, frowning. “What is the cat doing in here?” he asked, reaching out as if to pet the cat and jerking his hand back when the cat whipped his head around, hissing. “Nice kitty.”

“It’s ok,” Enjolras told the cat, his voice slipping into something that sounded an awful lot like a coo. “Grantaire brings you food sometimes, and you let him give you scritches, remember?”

The cat gazed adoringly up at Enjolras and Grantaire scowled, crossing his arms in front in his chest. “The damned thing was just letting me play with him a few weeks ago,” he complained. “And now I can’t even touch him? Not fair.”

Combeferre, who had been seated nearby watching this all unfold as he refused, this time around, to play any direct role in Courfeyrac’s spell-casting, cleared his throat. “Neither of you should probably be touching the cat,” he said. “It probably has fleas.”

But Enjolras ignored him, stroking the cat between the ears, his expression soft. “Maybe he’s tired of living in an alley,” he said. “Maybe I should take him home with me.”

Grantaire made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Home?” he repeated. “To your apartment that has a very clear ‘no pets’ policy in its lease?”

Enjolras ignored him and Courfeyrac frowned at Grantaire. “How in the world do you know what’s in Enjolras’s lease?”

Grantaire just arched an eyebrow. “How do you not know what’s in Enjolras’s lease?”

“That doesn’t even make sense—”

Courfeyrac’s protest was cut off by a sudden burst of frenetic sneezing from Bossuet. “Sorry,” he managed between. “I’m – _achoo!_ – allergic.”

Joly patted Bossuet’s arm sympathetically. “A cat may be a corrective, but in this case, I think Benadryl’s your better bet,” he said with a stifled laugh. “Besides, it’s a black cat, and I’m not sure you need any more bad luck.”

“Maybe you should put the cat back outside,” Grantaire suggested, and when Enjolras and the cat both gave him an affronted look, he shrugged and added, “Unless you’d rather abandon the entire meeting for madness. I’m fine either way.”

Enjolras made a face, looking back down at the cat. “Maybe you’re right,” he said reluctantly. “C’mon, buddy, let’s go outside. I’ll see you after the meeting, how about that?”

He carried the cat out of the room, Grantaire trailing after him, and Courfeyrac let out a light groan, sinking down next to Combeferre, who didn’t even try to hide his ‘I told you so’ look. “You know what I’m thinking?” he asked mildly.

Courfeyrac groaned again and leaned forward to rest his forehead against the table. “That the hairs I pulled off of Grantaire’s hoodie were clearly cat hairs, and that, having read Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets about twenty-five thousand times, I probably should’ve seen this coming?”

Combeferre considered it for a second. “Well, that too.”

Courfeyrac turned his head to squint suspiciously at Combeferre. “What were you thinking?” he asked warily.

Combeferre’s grin was unbearably smug. “Like I said...famous last words.”

“Just you wait,” Courfeyrac said, sitting up. “I will figure out a way to get those two together, or I will die trying.”

Combeferre arched an eyebrow. “That seems a little dramatic, even for you.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed. “Just you wait. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

“Well, given your success rate thus far, that certainly is true.”

Courfeyrac elbowed him sharply in the ribs and Combeferre groaned and laughed at the same time. “Worth it,” he muttered, rubbing his ribs, and Courfeyrac stuck his tongue out at him, his mind far away, trying to figure out just what, exactly, he had left to try next.


	4. Chapter 4

Courfeyrac waved his apartment’s warding spell off with a distracted hand, barely noticing that Combeferre had apparently been in his apartment at some point. He had spent the entire meeting wracking his brain for things to try next, and he was drawing a blank. **  
**

He didn’t like drawing a blank.

He flopped down on the couch, barely glancing up when he felt the warding spell tingle as Combeferre came in. “Come to gloat some more?” Courfeyrac asked sourly, staring up at the ceiling.

“As much as I may love gloating, no,” Combeferre said, hanging his coat on a hook and heading over to the couch, lifting Courfeyrac’s feet and settling them on his lap like he had a thousand time before. “I come bearing inspiration.”

“Oh?” Courfeyrac said mildly, propping himself up on his elbows. 

Combeferre nodded and pulled a bottle from his bag, setting it down on the coffee table with a clunk. “Yep, inspiration in the form of a bottle of Jägermeister.”

“Jäger?” Courfeyrac asked, wrinkling his nose. “The only thing Jäger ever inspired was bad life choices.”

“Yeah, but Grantaire gave it to me forever ago, and besides, it was between that or a bottle of absinthe, and seeing as how we’re not characters in a nineteenth century French novel—”

Courfeyrac laughed. “Fair point.” He held his hand out and Combeferre pressed the bottle into it. 

“Do you want a glass? Or a mixer, or—”

He broke off as Courfeyrac screwed the cap off and took a gulp straight from the bottle. “Oh, God,” he rasped. “Tastes like freshman year.”

Combeferre grabbed the bottle and took a swig, making a face. “Tastes like a frat party,” he said, handing the bottle back to Courfeyrac, who sat up, looking intrigued.

“When did you ever go to a frat party?”

“Despite what you may think, I didn’t spend my entire college career in the library,” Combeferre said.

Courfeyrac snorted and took another sip of Jäger. “So you say,” he muttered.

Combeferre rolled his eyes but didn’t push it, instead leaning forward to grab the Book of Shadows off the coffee table. “So what are you thinking?” he asked, flipping idly through the pages. “What’s your next grand plan?”

Courfeyrac sighed somewhat mournfully and cast a baleful look at the grimoire. “Would you believe me if I said I didn’t have one?”

Combeferre hesitated. “Would you be mad if I said I wasn’t surprised at all?”

Courfeyrac groaned and took a gulp of Jäger before passing the bottle back to Combeferre. “Just shut up and drink,” he sighed. “And let’s hope the inspiration hits us soon.”

Combeferre wisely chose not to say anything to that, just raising the bottle to his lips and taking a sip.

* * *

“What about lightning?” Combeferre asked vaguely, the now almost-empty bottle of Jäger sitting between him and Courfeyrac, who had swung his legs up over the back of the couch and was resting his head on Combeferre’s stomach. 

“Lightning?” Courfeyrac repeated.

Combeferre waved a hand. “Yeah, you know, like the, uh, _coup de foudre_.”

Courfeyrac turned his head to look up at him, looking amused. “I don’t think an actual lightning strike will help with that,” he said, with a slight hiccup. “Besides, I thought the point of the Jäger over absinthe was so that we wouldn’t get our inspiration from French fairytales.”

“Nineteenth century French novels,” Combeferre corrected, before sitting up, almost knocking Courfeyrac off the couch in the process. “Wait a second – fairytales.”

“Ow,” Courfeyrac complained, sitting up as well. “What about fairytales?”

Combeferre ignored him, flipping through the Book of Shadows, before landing decisively on a page and pointing excitedly at it. “Here,” he announced, shoving, the book at Courfeyrac. “Like a fairytale!”

Courfeyrac blinked down at the page, finding it difficult to focus enough to read. “Draught of Living Death,” he read outloud, before looking at Combeferre incredulously. “You want me to kill them? I don’t think we’re that desperate.”

Combeferre rolled his eyes. “No, don’t you see?” he said excitedly. “Give one of ‘em that, and then the other can wake him up with True Love’s Kiss! Like a fairytale!”

Courfeyrac started at Combeferre for a moment before bursting into laughter. “Ferre, True Love’s Kiss is not a real thing,” he said, reaching out to pat Combeferre’s head patronizingly. “That is a fairytale. So the only thing I’d be doing is putting one of them in basically a coma. Which I’m not gonna pretend I haven’t thought about. Especially Enjolras.”

“You’re not wrong there,” Combeferre muttered.

“But that magical coma can’t be broken by Grantaire kissing him. Not to mention you were the one all concerned about consent.”

Combeferre sighed, looking crestfallen. “Well, I thought it was a good idea,” he said, slumping against the couch cushions and grabbing the bottle of Jäger. 

“Better than anything I’ve come up with,” Courfeyrac sighed. “Since all I can think of is locking ‘em in a room together.”

“And casting a spell on them?” Combeferre asked interestedly.

Courfeyrac sighed. “No. Just making them stay in there until they either confessed or...I dunno. Something.”

Both men fell silent, Combeferre staring at the Book of Shadows as if it might somehow reveal something to him, while Courfeyrac played absently with the crystal he wore on a chain around his neck, feeling the gentle flare of the spells his father had placed on it, spells of charisma and luck and strength and…

“Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “Lock ‘em in a room together.”

“You said that already,” Combeferre sighed.

“Right, but not put a spell on them.”

“You said that too.”

Courfeyrac shook his head. “No, but I can put a spell on the room.”

Combeferre glanced over at him. “Like your worthless warding spell?”

“It’s not worthless,” Courfeyrac said impatiently. “But yes, kind of like that. I’ve trying to cast the spell on them directly, and that hasn’t worked. So maybe I need to try spelling a location they would both go.”

“Like the Musain?” Combeferre asked doubtfully.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “No, that gets too much traffic from outside parties, it’d be impossible to limit the spell effects.” He fell silent, wracking his slightly drunk brain for an alternative before brightening. “Enjolras’s apartment!”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “That would probably work,” he said. “But, uh, what spell would you use?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “The exact same spell I was gonna use from the beginning – the attraction spell that I used for Marius.”

Combeferre didn’t look convinced. “Ok, but Grantaire already hangs out at Enjolras’s apartment all the time, frequently without Enjolras, because it’s closer to the Musain and his work and because he claims Enjolras’s couch is more comfortable than his bed—”

“Having seen Grantaire’s bed, I believe him.”

Combeferre was undeterred. “Right, but my point is that Grantaire is there all the time anyway, which brings us to the same problem we had when you originally suggested this idea.”

“Exactly,” Courfeyrac said. “Which is why the attraction spell won’t be focused on Grantaire. It’ll be focused on Enjolras.”

Combeferre blinked. “You want to attract Enjolras to his own apartment?”

“Yep,” Courfeyrac said with a confidence only alcohol could provide. “Because that man barely spends any time there. This way, he’ll want to spend all of his time there. With Grantaire and away from Les Amis or anything else to distract them.”

He was so confident in this idea that he was actually taken aback when Combeferre asked, still sounding doubtful, “Ok, so we get him to spend time with Grantaire at his apartment, and then what? What if that’s not enough?”

Courfeyrac frowned slightly. “Well, if they’re spending that time there without any distractions, maybe it’ll just...happen?” he suggested, wincing at how weak it was.

Combeferre gave him a look. “They’ve been spending time together for years. That’s the whole reason why we’re doing this.”

Courfeyrac sagged back against the couch. “Damn, I really thought we had something there,” he said mournfully, leaning over to rest his head against Combeferre’s shoulder.

Combeferre sighed. “Well, we can always go back to my idea.”

Courfeyrac made a face. “Draught of Living Death?”

“No, not interfering.”

“That ship has long since sailed,” Courfeyrac reminded him, glaring up at him. “Besides, you’ve done enough interfering already that you should probably let that idea go.”

Combeferre half-smiled. “Fair.”

“You know, that reminds me,” Courfeyrac said, lifting his head off of Combeferre’s shoulder. “I know why I’m doing this, but why are you? You’ve been against this from the beginning, but you keep coming back.”

“Well, someone’s got to stop you from making a complete fool of yourself,” Combeferre said lightly.

“Ha ha,” Courfeyrac said dryly. “C’mon, I mean it – why’re you helping me?”

Combeferre glanced over at him, something unreadable in his expression. “You really want to know?” Courfeyrac nodded, and Combeferre took a deep breath. “Well, honestly—”

“Wait, that’s it!” Courfeyrac burst, realization hitting.

“What’s it?”

Courfeyrac grinned. “An honesty spell. I can cast an honesty spell on Enjolras’s apartment along with the attraction spell.”

“You can do that?” Combeferre asked.

“Oh, sure, you can layer all kinds of spells to work in tandem.”

Combeferre nodded slowly. “Ok, so you do a truth spell, and—”

“An honesty spell,” Courfeyrac corrected. “Truth spells tend to backfire and make people confess all kinds of deep dark secrets, and I don’t think sending Grantaire down that path will lead to the kind of confession we’re hoping for.”

“Grantaire?” Combeferre snorted. “I’d be more worried about Enjolras confessing his plans to violently overthrow the government.” 

Courfeyrac considered it. “Fair point,” he allowed. “But in any case, I’m taking chances this time, so no truth spell, just a mild honesty spell so that they can’t lie to each other. That’s as far as my magic can go. The rest’ll be up to them.”

Combeferre was silent for a long moment before he nodded again. “You know, this just might actually work.”

“What was that?” Courfeyrac asked distractedly as he grabbed the Book of Shadows.

“I said, this might actually work,” Combeferre repeated, slightly louder.

Courfeyrac looked up from the grimoire, grinning at him. “Oh, I heard you the first time,” he said smugly. “I just wanted to make you say it again.”

Combeferre scowled and punched Courfeyrac lightly on the arm. “Well, I’m certainly not going to say it a third time,” he said, slightly petulantly. “Not until it actually works, at least.”

“Trust me, this time, it will,” Courfeyrac said, his confidence less fueled by Jäger this time and more by sheer determination. “It has to.”


	5. Chapter 5

The key to most physical magic with inanimate objects was understanding that at least one of the components was once alive. Sure, it was several million years back in some cases, but as the quote went, ‘we are all stardust’ blah blah blah. **  
**

Courfeyrac didn’t remember the exact quote, but the sentiment was what mattered. And the sentiment was what was going to allow him to break into Enjolras’s apartment.

All it took was a little persuasion to remind the metal in the lock that it had once lived in the earth before it was dug up and smelted, and it was easy enough after that to politely request that it unlock for him. Combeferre had tried to figure the process out once and almost had a nervous breakdown; he’d had an easier time understanding one of Joly’s stranger theories of magnetism.

But the important thing was that it worked, and Courfeyrac slipped into Enjolras’s apartment, a handful of already-spelled, nondescript crystals ready to cast and maintain the spell that would finally force Enjolras and Grantaire to admit to each other what they thus far had refused to.

Courfeyrac grinned triumphantly as he glanced around. He already knew Enjolras was out, having sent Combeferre to meet up with him for coffee, and Grantaire and Bahorel had a standing boxing match to keep him occupied, which left Courfeyrac with about forty-five minutes to get the crystals placed and ensure the spell was cast.

He doubted it would take him even a fraction of that time.

Four crystals were carefully placed in the cardinal sides of the apartment: along the north wall, tucked on a bookshelf behind a few first year law textbooks that Courfeyrac doubted Enjolras had opened in close to a decade; as far east as the apartment went, dropped into the tank of the toilet in the bathroom (Courfeyrac couldn’t help but giggle as he did so); in the south of the apartment, placed behind the alarm clock in Enjolras’s bedroom; and the west, in the kitchen pantry behind a stack of expired ramen. 

“Disgusting,” Courfeyrac said, wrinkling his nose as he shifted the ramen packets back into place. “Hopefully Grantaire actually feeds you real food when you two finally get together.”

The fifth and final crystal went in as central a location as Courfeyrac could manage, hidden in the pot of some houseplant, almost certainly a gift from Jehan at some point, that Enjolras had not yet managed to kill. After Courfeyrac pressed the crystal into the soil, and ran his fingers over the leaves, frowning at how dry they were. “Perk up,” he ordered, passing some vitality into the plant, the leaves almost instantly perking up and greening.

Satisfied, Courfeyrac straightened, glancing around the apartment. There was something odd about it, something Courfeyrac couldn’t quite put his finger on, and he frowned slightly, trying to place what felt like it was missing. Then his phone vibrated in his pocket, and he dug it out, reading the text from Combeferre. _Enjolras ended coffee early._ _He’s on his way back. Get out of there._

Courfeyrac slid his phone back in his pocket and glanced around one more time. “Alright, one last test,” he said aloud. He paused, trying to think of what to say. “I hate—” The words seemed heavy in his mouth, and he couldn’t seem to get out what he was trying to say.

Meaning the honesty spell was working.

He nodded officiously and headed out, closing the door after him with a satisfied snap. He placed his hand on the door, the wood grain warm underneath his palm. “Thank you,” he whispered, grinning as he heard the lock slide back into the place.

His job there was done. Now all he had to do was wait.

* * *

If he was being honest, Courfeyrac expected for Enjolras and Grantaire to walk into the next Les Amis meeting holding hands and blushing as they told their friends that they were dating. 

“You’re an idiot,” Combeferre told him as he glanced expectantly at the doorway, almost vibrating with excitement.

“Better an idiot than a cynic,” Courfeyrac shot back.

Combeferre gasped with mock-outrage. “You take that back, he said, and Courfeyrac grinned, thought he straightened when he saw Enjolras.

Who came in alone.

Scrolling through his phone.

And looking like absolutely nothing was different.

“Told you so,” Combeferre muttered, and Courfeyrac elbowed him.

“Hey Enj,” he said brightly as Enjolras approached. “How are you doing?”

Enjolras just grunted as he sat down, not looking up from his phone. “Did you see this about the 8th Circuit Court of Appeals and vote by mail ballots in Minnesota?” he demanded, gesturing at his phone as if Combeferre and Courfeyrac could read whatever was on his screen.

“Uh, no,” Courfeyrac said, glancing over at Combeferre, whose expression was resigned. “Have you seen Grantaire recently?”

“Huh?” Enjolras said distractedly. “No, uh, I actually have seen him in a few days.”

Now Combeferre and Courfeyrac exchanged startled looks. “Really?” Combeferre asked doubtfully. “Did you two have a fight?”

“The only fight that I have is with the courts and their asinine rulings,” Enjolras said with a scowl, still looking down at his phone as he furiously typed something.

Combeferre cleared his throat and stood, gesturing for Courfeyrac to join him. “Care to explain?” he asked when they were out of Enjolras’s earshot.

Courfeyrac shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe Grantaire’s been busy?” he suggested. “It just seems like they haven’t spent a lot of time together recently, and this plan relies on them being together.”

“It sure does,” Combeferre said, with something like disapproval. “And, uh, did you consider what would happen if they didn’t spend any time together?”

Courfeyrac stared at him. “Look, even if they’ve fought recently or something like that, Grantaire will wander back into Enjolras’s apartment eventually.” Combeferre didn’t look convinced and Courfeyrac nudged him. “C’mon. Trust me. It’s only been a few days. It’ll be fine.”

Combeferre opened his mouth to say something but at that moment, Joly, Grantaire and Bossuet spilled into the room, all seeming in their usual good spirits, and Courfeyrac glanced over at Combeferre, smirking slightly. “See? He’s just been busy.”

“If you say so,” Combeferre said, following him back to their seats.

* * *

Two weeks later, Courfeyrac was beginning to think that Combeferre was right, and he hated when Combeferre was right.

Enjolras was just as distracted as ever, barely spending any time at Les Amis meetings before disappearing, assumedly to his apartment, and Grantaire seemed to be spending most of his time with his other friends, his mood getting darker and darker as the days went on.

Whatever fight they’d had, clearly it was enough for Grantaire to be avoiding Enjolras’s apartment, thus casting doubt that Courfeyrac’s plan was going to work.

“How long is this going to go on for?” Combeferre asked Courfeyrac in an undertone as Enjolras discussed something about Poland’s abortion ban with Feuilly while Grantaire watched them, nursing a beer, his expression dark. 

Courfeyrac sighed, stirring his drink with his straw. “Well, the spell only lasts for about two more weeks before I’d need to renew it,” he said with another sigh. “But I don’t want either of them to spend two more weeks like this.” He scowled as Grantaire drained his beer. “I don’t know why this is happening. This plan was supposed to be foolproof!”

“In fairness, you didn’t plan for Enjolras and Grantaire having some kind of fight that’s kept Grantaire from going to Enjolras’s apartment,” Combeferre said reasonably. “Maybe you can talk to Grantaire, see if you can find out what happened and, you know, fix it?”

“What, use my magic on whatever they’re fighting about?” Courfeyrac asked skeptically.

Combeferre gave him a look. “I meant talking to him and getting him to make up with Enjolras. All magic aside, you’re generally pretty good at that.”

Courfeyrac considered it. “Well, it can’t hurt,” he agreed, tossing back his drink and going to join Grantaire. “You look like you need a refill,” he said by way of greeting, and Grantaire looked up at him, smiling slightly.

“You read my mind,” he said, standing up and grabbing his empty beer bottle before following Courfeyrac to the bar. “Though I think I actually need a stronger drink rather than a refill.”

“Yeah, you looked like you had something on your mind,” Courfeyrac said, leaning against the bar. “Something happen with you and Enjolras?”

For a moment, Grantaire’s expression seemed frozen, then he snorted, picking at the label of his empty beer bottle. “You, uh, you noticed that, huh?” he asked gruffly.

“Pretty hard not to,” Courfeyrac said evenly. “But this seems worse than your usual fights.”

Grantaire sighed. “Honestly, I’m not even sure that we’re having a fight. I don’t know what this is, or what I did, or...anything, really.”

Courfeyrac frowned. “What’s going on?”

Grantaire shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Everything was going fine – great, even – and then all of sudden…” He trailed off as the bartender brought him a shot and a fresh beer, flashing her a tired smile before picking up the shot. “Sláinte,” he said, toasting Courfeyrac with the shot before downing it. “All of a sudden, it’s like Enjolras didn’t even want to be in the same room as me. Like he didn’t want anything to do with me.”

Courfeyrac’s insides ran cold. “But didn’t he…” He trailed off, trying to figure out a better way to ask the question that didn’t reveal too much. “I thought he was spending a lot of time at his place?”

“All his time!” Grantaire burst, looking miserable, and Courfeyrac blinked in confusion.

“But—” he started, but Grantaire cut him off.

“And I thought I was doing the nice thing, letting him keep his place, y’know? Because I know my schedule can get weird, and so can his, and even though living with him is all it feels like I’ve ever wanted, I also want him to have his space when he needs it, but if I had known he was going to spend all his time there—”

Courfeyrac opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Thankfully, Grantaire didn’t seem to notice, well caught-up in a rant now, his anger and sadness and fear mingling in his expression. “He has not slept in bed with me for over two weeks. He barely looks at me – I don’t even remember the last time we kissed.” He broke off, swallowing hard, and Courfeyrac was horrified to see tears in his eyes. “I swear to God, Courf, he is the love of my life but I don’t think I’m his. Not anymore.”

Courfeyrac’s stomach was somewhere around his knees, and he clutched the edge of the bar to keep himself upright. Grantaire was looking at him as if expecting him to say something, and Courfeyrac cleared his throat before asking weakly, “Uh...when?”

He had meant it to be more elegant, and for a moment, when Grantaire just stared at him blankly, he thought desperately of ways he could clarify his question, but it was too late. “He didn’t even tell you?” Grantaire asked quietly, and Courfeyrac winced.

“He- well, that is- see, the thing about Enjolras—”

“He didn’t even _tell_ you?”

Grantaire no longer looked sad – he looked pissed. “We start dating six months ago, move in together over a month ago, and he doesn’t even tell one of his best friends?”

Courfeyrac hesitated. “I, uh, I don’t think Combeferre knows either.”

Grantaire eyes flashed. “Son of a—”

“But I’m sure Enjolras was planning on telling us!” Courfeyrac added hastily. “At some point. Probably.”

But Grantaine just shook his head, his expression stony. “He wasn’t,” he said. “I should have realized it was too easy. When Enjolras said he wanted to try this thing for real, I didn’t believe him at first, but I thought, what the hell? What’s the worst that could happen? And then after a few months when he told me that he loved me, that he wanted to take this to the next level and move in together, it was everything I ever wanted, so I didn’t question it, but I...I should’ve realized…” He trailed off. “Well, I should’ve realized it was too good to be true.”

He grabbed his beer and turned to leave, but Courfeyrac reached out and grabbed his arm. “He loves you,” he blurted, and Grantaire just shook his head, not looking back at him.

“He couldn’t even be bothered to tell you, one of his best friends, that we were dating. That we were living together.” He shook his head again. “I don’t know what that is, but it’s not love.”

“He didn’t tell us about you because he loves you.”

Now Grantaire turned to stare at him. “What are you talking about?”

For one brief, desperate moment, Courfeyrac thought about using his magic to get himself out of this – a quick illusion spell, or a temporary forgetfulness, something without too lasting of effects so he could get out of there and figure out what the hell he was going to do.

But he had already caused this, with his spell that was meant to get them together and instead had driven them apart. 

And he owed Grantaire to tell him, if not the truth, then at least something that might help. And his magic wasn’t going to help him with that.

“Enjolras loves you,” he said, as honestly as he could. “You two are perfect for each other, and everyone knows it. Probably before you both did. He loves you, and he doesn’t know what to do with that, because he’s him, and you’re you. That’s why he didn’t tell me and Combeferre, because if he tells us and it all falls apart with you— He wouldn’t know what to do with that either.”

Grantaire shook his head slightly but didn’t try to interrupt, and Courfeyrac barrelled forward. “He loves spending time with you. Why do you think you two have spent so many late nights together at the Musain, or his old apartment before you moved in together? How many times have you two got into a knock-down, drag out fight that should’ve ended with him banning you from Les Amis but never has? Because he wants you there, wants you in his life.”

Though Grantaire’s expression had softened, just slightly, he still didn’t look convinced and Courfeyrac took a deep breath before continuing. “Look, I know Enjolras. Almost better than anyone else. And he would not have taken that first step with you, let alone moving in together, if he was not 1000% convinced that this was what he wanted. That you were who he wanted. That you were the first person he wants to see each day and the last person he wants to see at night.”

For some reason, even though Courfeyrac was talking about Enjolras and Grantaire, he kept thinking about Combeferre, of all the time they had spent together in the past several weeks – the past several years, if Courfeyrac was being honest.

But he didn’t have time to dwell on that right now. “I know things between you and Enjolras are weird right now. But I promise, if you hang in there, things will get back on track for you.”

“When?” Grantaire asked, a little desperately.

“About twenty-five minutes, give or take,” Courfeyrac muttered, thinking of how long it would take him to get to Enjolras’s apartment and neutralize the attraction spell.

“What?” Grantaire asked, his brow furrowed, and Courfeyrac shook his head and forced a smile.

“Let me buy you a shot,” he said. “To, uh, help pass the time until things get better.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

Courfeyrac nodded. “Yeah,” he said firmly. “How about—” He caught sight of a familiar-looking bottle and couldn’t help but smile, just slightly. “How about a shot of Jäger?”

Grantaire wrinkled his nose. “Pass,” he said dismissively. “I can’t stand Jäger.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac asked. “I didn’t think there was any alcohol you didn’t like.” 

Grantaire laughed. “Understandable, but, God no. I hate licorice.”

Courfeyrac opened his mouth to reply but froze, something rising unbidden in the back of his mind. Licorice root – star anise – ginger – ginseng...all flavors in Jäger.

And all components of the love potion he had used on Enjolras.

The love potion Combeferre had _watched_ him make.

“Earth to Courf,” Grantaire said loudly, and Courfeyrac blinked, looking back at him. “You buying me that shot or what?”

“Uh, yeah, here,” he said, opening his wallet and tossing a few bills on the bar without looking. “Sorry, I— there’s something I have to go do.”

Grantaire’s brow furrowed. “Everything ok?” he asked.

“Fine,” Courfeyrac said, digging his cellphone out his pocket. “Or at least, it will be.”

He didn’t wait for a reply from Grantaire, already weaving through the crowd toward the door, typing a text message as he did.

_Meet me at Enjolras’s. We need to talk._


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's read! This one was a lot of fun to write :)

The knock on the door was quiet, almost cautious, and Courfeyrac called out, “Come in!”

The door creaked open and Combeferre poked his head in. “Dare I ask what’s going on?” he asked mildly, stepping inside after he saw that Courfeyrac was alone.

“Well, for starters, it turns out that Enjolras and Grantaire didn’t need any magical help getting together, seeing as how they’ve been dating for six months.”

Combeferre blinked. “Well,” he said, taking a few steps towards Courfeyrac. “That certainly explains a lot.”

“You think?” Courfeyrac asked dryly.

“So you came here to disable the spells?”

Courfeyrac shrugged. “Well, seeing as how the binding spell had the unfortunate side of effect of making Enjolras want to stay here instead of the apartment he and Grantaire got together…” He trailed off, smiling slightly at the look of surprise on Combeferre’s face. “Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction, too.”

Combeferre shook his head slowly. “Wow,” he said, shoving his hands in his pockets and shaking his head slightly. “I...did not see that coming.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “Me neither,” he muttered. “Then again, seems there’s a lot that I haven’t seen coming these days.”

Combeferre eyed him warily. “That sounds ominous,” he said mildly. “Something on your mind?”

“You tell me,” Courfeyrac said, matching his tone and meeting his gaze evenly. “You’re the one who put a love potion in the Jäger.”

More emotions than Courfeyrac could possibly track flashed in rapid succession across Combeferre’s face, and Courfeyrac couldn’t quite stop his slightly smug smile as Combeferre opened his mouth but couldn’t seem to speak the denial he clearly wanted to. After a long moment of struggling, Combeferre swallowed, his expression neutral. “You didn’t get rid of the honesty spell,” he said finally.

Courfeyrac shrugged again. “I thought it might do us both some good to finally have to say it like it is,” he said. “And before you even start, you were the one preaching about consent before slipping me a love potion. What did you do, skim a little from the cauldron when I wasn’t looking?”

“Yes,” Combeferre said, not bothering to try to deny it this time.

Courfeyrac blinked, a little taken aback by how willingly he admitted it, even with the honesty spell. “And you put it in the Jäger.”

Again, Combeferre didn’t try to fight the lingering honesty spell. “Yes,” he said. “I put it in the Jäger.”

Courfeyrac bit back his immediate question, the _why_ he had been holding back this entire time, because looking at Combeferre, standing not even two feet away from him, he knew why.

They both knew why.

Courfeyrac had been the one to say it, when he was explaining why he was doing this for Enjolras and Grantaire – _because they would both be so happy with each other if they would just admit how they feel_ – but Combeferre had been the one to act on it.

And took a leaf out of Courfeyrac’s book to do so – rather literally.

So he managed to contain the grin he felt twitching at the corners of his mouth, glancing down at the floor for a moment before looking back at Combeferre. “And?”

“And what?” Combeferre asked, his brow furrowed. “And it didn’t work.”

Courfeyrac cocked his head slightly. “Who said that?”

Combeferre’s brow furrowed even further. “No one,” he said, “I just— You didn’t—”

He broke off, flushing slightly, and now Courfeyrac did grin. “What, didn’t jump you?” he asked cheerfully.

“Sure, if that’s how you want to word it,” Combeferre said sourly, something tightening in his expression before he looked pointedly away, and Courfeyrac’s stomach dropped as he realized Combeferre thought they were having a very different conversation than they were.

“No, I didn’t jump you,” he said quickly, “but—”

“Which means there weren’t feelings there,” Combeferre said flatly, still not meeting Courfeyrac’s eyes. “You said it yourself, a love potion doesn’t make someone feel a certain way, it just...amplifies feelings that are already there.”

“And you think that because I didn’t jump you, that there are no feelings there.”

Courfeyrac’s voice was incredulous, and Combeferre’s flush deepened. “Well, logically speaking—” he muttered, but Courfeyrac interrupted him.

“What part of my magic, of magic at all, has ever seemed logical to you?” he demanded.

Combeferre shook his head slowly but didn’t try to answer the question, instead looking at Courfeyrac, his expression unreadable. “So what are you saying?”

Courfeyrac arched an eyebrow. “I’m saying you miscalculated.”

Combeferre frowned. “I followed the instructions in the grimoire to the word—”

“There’s more to magic than just following instructions,” Courfeyrac said, exasperated. “It’s not a science experiment that you replicate with identical results every time!”

Combeferre’s scowl was firmly back in place. “Well then why don’t you tell me what I did wrong instead of lecturing me about it?” he snapped.

Courfeyrac couldn’t help himself – he barked a laugh, scrubbing a hand across his face before grinning at Combeferre. “You really are an idiot, you know that, right?”

“You said—”

“I know what I said,” Courfeyrac said.

Combeferre shook his head. “No, you said that the potion would fill the drinker with feelings of desire and possession, and—”

“Yeah, I know.”

Combeferre threw his hands up in frustration. “Ok, so then what did I miss?”

“You missed that I have spent every single day of the past few years pretending that I didn’t have feelings of desire and possession,” Courfeyrac said honest for the first time, and the spell had nothing to with it. Combeferre froze, staring at him. “You missed that I never needed a love potion for that. You think that I didn’t want to jump you after drinking that? Of course I did. But I’ve gotten really, really good at pretending that I don’t.”

Combeferre’s mouth opened and closed again as he gaped at Courfeyrac. After a long moment, he managed to pull himself together enough to croak, “Then why—”

“Because…” It was Courfeyrac’s turn to blush, just a little. “Because I didn’t think you felt the same.”

Combeferre stared at him, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Well now who’s the idiot?” he asked.

In lieu of answering, Courfeyrac closed the space between them and kissed him.

For just a moment, Combeferre froze, but then he melted against him, kissing Courfeyrac back almost fiercely, his hand fisting in Courfeyrac’s shirt as if he could pull him closer. 

When they broke apart, neither man moved far, and Courfeyrac reached out to cup Combeferre’s cheek, tracing his thumb across the spray of barely visible freckles across his cheek. “I think we can probably agree we’re both idiots,” he said quietly.

Combeferre laughed before kissing Courfeyrac again. “Maybe,” he allowed. “But at least we figured it out eventually.”

“Yeah, and it only took three spells and two potions for us to figure it out.” He kissed Combeferre once more before taking a step back. “Speaking of, there’s one more thing I need to do.”

“Get rid of the honesty spell?” Combeferre asked.

Courfeyrac. “Ok, two things,” he said, bending down to pick the crystal up from where he had hidden it on the coffee table, blowing on it gently to neutralize the spell within. “And now just one thing.”

“And what can you possibly have to do that’s more important than, well, me?” Combeferre asked, but Courfeyrac wasn’t deterred by the innuendo.

“I owe someone an apology.”

* * *

Courfeyrac waited a few days before he made his way to Enjolras and Grantaire’s new apartment, figuring both men could probably use a little time back together now that Courfeyrac had gotten rid of the spell that had driven them apart. 

Judging by the satisfied smile Grantaire wore when he answered the door, he had figured right.

“For you,” he said, using just a little magic to make a bouquet of flowers appear, and he presented them to Grantaire with a flourish.

“Flowers?” Grantaire asked mildly, taking the bouquet from Courfeyrac. “Have you been taking advice from Jehan?”

“Something like that,” Courfeyrac said. “Consider them an apology of sorts.”

“What are you apologizing for?” Grantaire asked, gesturing for Courfeyrac to come inside. 

Courfeyrac shrugged, glancing around the apartment. He was completely unsurprised to see the cat that used to live behind the Musain curled up on the couch, along with a perfect mismatch of items from Enjolras and Grantaire’s former apartments. “Well, you know,” he said, glancing back at Grantaire. “I probably should’ve figured it out sooner.”

Grantaire laughed lightly, taking the flowers into the kitchen. “Or maybe you don’t give Enjolras and I enough credit for keeping it a secret.”

Courfeyrac laughed as well, meandering over to the bookshelf, gratified to see pictures of Les Amis dotting the shelves, along with one selfie of Enjolras and Grantaire that he had never seen, Grantaire kissing Enjolras’s cheek as Enjolras grinned at the camera. He picked the frame off the shelf, smiling down at it. “I definitely didn’t give you two enough credit,” he said as Grantaire rooted around for something to put the flowers in.

Before he could say anything else, the front door banged open and Enjolras came inside, typing furiously on his phone. “They can’t rescind an election certification,” he muttered to himself, toeing his shoes off at the door without looking up. “Hey R, what do you—”

Courfeyrac cleared his throat and Enjolras looked up at him. “Oh, hey, Courf,” he said vaguely, looking back down at his phone before his head snapped up again, the blood draining from his face. “I mean, uh…”

Courfeyrac smirked. “Good to see you, too.”

Enjolras looked frantically around, clearly looking for Grantaire. “I, uh, I can explain.”

“No need,” Grantaire said, coming out of the kitchen with the flowers sticking out of what Courfeyrac was fairly certain was a hurricane glass. “Courfeyrac knows.”

“I was planning on telling you,” Enjolras said, a little desperately, and Courfeyrac grinned, setting the picture frame back on the shelf.

“Are you telling that to me or to Grantaire?”

“Both,” Enjolras muttered, and Grantaire laughed, setting the makeshift vase on the coffee table before crossing over to Enjolras and kissing him lightly.

“Don’t worry, you’re forgiven,” he said, and Enjolras sighed in relief before immediately bristling.

“Hang on, what in hell do I need forgiving for?”

Courfeyrac coughed lightly. “Well, I just wanted to bring you the flowers,” he told Grantaire, “and now I’ll leave you both to it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Enjolras muttered grumpily, though he was fighting back a smile as Grantaire kissed him again. “Are you and Combeferre still on for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Of course,” Courfeyrac said, inching toward the door as Grantaire pulled Enjolras toward the couch. “And, uh, we have something to tell you tomorrow, too.”

Grantaire sat down on the couch and pulled Enjolras down with him. “Sure, sounds good,” Enjolras said distractedly, and Courfeyrac laughed before letting himself out, closing the door after him.

He made his way to the street and Combeferre straightened from where he had been leaning casually against the building, waiting for him. “Did they like the flowers?” he asked, leaning in to kiss Courfeyrac cheek in greeting.

Courfeyrac nodded. “I think so.”

They walked together for a moment before Combeferre glanced at him. “Did you put a spell on the flowers?”

“I am aghast that you think so poorly of me.” Combeferre just arched an eyebrow and Courfeyrac laughed. “Flowers don’t last forever,” he said. “Not worth wasting a spell on, though I did wind some ivy and yarrow in there, for love and healing – my version of an apology.”

“Ok, so you didn’t spell the flowers,” Combeferre said, undeterred. “But you did cast a spell.”

“Maybe,” Courfeyrac said with a grin, thinking of the small, nondescript stone he had slipped behind the picture frame on the bookshelf. “Just a little something.”

“Don’t you think you’ve done enough?” Combeferre asked, mock-sternly, though he also couldn’t seem to stop himself from asking, “And what was this spell for?”

Courfeyrac took Combeferre’s hand, lacing their fingers together and lifting them to his mouth to press a kiss to Combeferre’s knuckles. “Happiness,” he said simply.

Combeferre’s smile softened. “Well, I can’t fault you for that. Just as long as you don’t try the same thing for us.”

“I think you and I have had more than enough magical interference for a lifetime,” Courfeyrac said. “Besides, we don’t need a spell to be happy.” He leaned in and kissed the corner of Combeferre’s mouth. “Now c’mon. Let’s go home.”

Together, they walked down the street, still hand in hand when, abruptly, Combeferre said, “You know, I don’t want to jinx it, but I do have to say it.”

“Say what?” Courfeyrac asked warily.

“I told you so.”

Courfeyrac glanced over at him, trying to place what, exactly, Combeferre was gloating about this time. Then it hit him. “Oh my God, are you serious?”

“You can’t use your magic for personal gain,” Combeferre said, a little smugly. “It never turns out the way you want it to.”

Courfeyrac nudged him in the ribs with his elbow. “Technically speaking, _you_ used my magic for personal gain.”

Combeferre considered it and shrugged. “And it didn’t exactly work out the way I planned either, now did it?”

“No,” Courfeyrac agreed. “And I wouldn’t change it for the world.”


End file.
